01 
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1  I 
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tts'C' "t 


M^t^-^ 


BY  A  CITY  GRATE 

SECOND   REVERIE 


SEA-COAL 
ANTHRACITE 


"  She  was  proud  of  the  attentions  of  a  man  who  carried 
a  mind  in  his  brain." 


By   A   City    Grate 


OF  CALIF.  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELES 


By  a  City  Grate 

FROM 

REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 

BY 

IK.  MARVEL 

(DONALD  G.  MITCHELL) 


R.  F.  FENNO  &  COMPANY 

18  EAST  SEVENTEENTH  ST.,  NEW  YORK 


COPYRIGHT,  1907 
BY  R.  F.  FENNO  &  COMPANY 


BY  A  CITY  GRATE 

SECOND   REVERIE 


SEA-COAL 
ANTHRACITE 


By  a  City  Grate 


BLESSED  be  letters  —  they  are  the  monitors, 
they  are  also  the  comforters,  and  they  are  the 
only  true  heart-talkers  !  Your  speech,  and 
their  speeches,  are  conventional  ;  they  are 
molded  by  circumstance  ;  they  are  suggested 
by  the  observation,  remark,  and  influence  of 
the  parties  to  whom  the  speaking  is  addressed, 
or  by  whom  it  may  be  overheard. 

Your  truest  thought  is  modified  half  through  •   •' 

its  utterance  by  a  look,  a  sign,  a  smile,  or  a    -f^.^ 
sneer.     It  is  not  individual  ;  it  is  not  integral  :  I 
it  is  social  and  mixed  —  half  of  you,  and  half  of 
others.     It   bends,  it  sways,  it  multiplies,  it    / 
retires,  and  it  advances,  as  the  talk  of  others    i  Vif  : 

presses,  relaxes,  or  quickens. 

But  it  is  not  so  of  letters  —  there  you  are, 
with  only  the  soulless  pen,  and  the  snow-white, 
virgin  paper.  Your  soul  is  measuring  itself  by 
itself,  and  saying  its  own  sayings  :  there  are  no 
sneers  to  modify  its  utterance  —  no  scowl  to  ; 
3 


2137210 


a 


<5rate 


scare — nothing  is  present  but  'you,  and  your 
thought. 

Utter  it  then  freely — write  it  down — stamp 
it — burn  it  in  the  ink ! — There  it  is,  a  true  soul- 
print  ! 

Oh,  the  glory,  the  freedom,  the  passion  of  a 
letter !  It  is  worth  all  the  lip-talk  in  the  world. 
Do  you  say,  it  is  studied,  made  up,  acted,  re- 
hearsed, contrived,  artistic  ? 

Let  me  see  it,  then  ;  let  me  run  it  over ;  tell 
me  age,  sex,  circumstance,  and  I  will  tell  you 
if  it  be  studied  or  real — if  it  be  the  merest  lip- 
slang  put  into  words,  or  heart-talk  blazing  on 
the  paper. 

I  have  a  little  packet,  not  very  large,  tied  up 
with  narrow,  crimson  ribbon,  now  soiled  with 
frequent  handling,  which  far  into  some  win- 
ter's night,  I  take  down  from  its  nook  upon 
my  shelf,  and  untie,  and  open,  and  run  over, 
with  such  sorrow,  and  such  joy — such  tears 
and  such  smiles,  as  I  am  sure  make  me  for 
weeks  after,  a  kinder  and  holier  man. 

There  are  in  this  little  packet,  letters  in  the 
familiar  hand  of  a  mother — what  gentle  ad- 
monition— what  tender  affection  ! — God  have 
mercy  on  him  who  outlives  the  tears  that  such 
4 


a  Cit£  (Brate 


admonitions,  and  such  affection  call  up  to  the 
eye!  There  are  others  in  the  budget,  in  the 
delicate,  and  unformed  hand  of  a  loved,  and 
lost  sister — written  when  she,  and  you  were 
full  of  glee,  and  the  best  mirth  of  youthful- 
ness  ;  does  it  harm  you  to  recall  that  mirthful- 
ness  ?  or  to  trace  again,  for  the  hundredth 
time,  that  scrawling  postscript  at  the  bottom, 
with  its  i's  so  carefully  dotted,  and  its  gigantic 
t's  so  carefully  crossed,  by  the  childish  hand  of 
a  little  brother  ? 

I  have  added  latterly  to  that  packet  of  let- 
ters ;  I  almost  need  a  new  and  longer  ribbon  ; 
the  old  one  is  getting  too  short.  Not  a  few 
of  these  new  and  cherished  letters,  a  former 
reverie1  has  brought  to  me ;  not  letters  of  cold 
praise,  saying  it  was  well  done,  artfully  exe- 
cuted, prettily  imagined — no  such  thing:  but 
letters  of  sympathy — of  sympathy  which  mean?  ; 
sympathy — the  7ra0ij//c  and  the  GUV. 

It  would  be  cold,  and  dastardly  work  to 
copy  them;  I  am  too  selfish  for  that.  It  is 
enough  to  say  that  they,  the  kind  writers, 


1  The  first  reverie — Smoke,  Flame  and  Ashes,  was  pub- 
lished some  mouths  previous  to  this,  in  the  Southern  Literary 
Messenger. 


a  Cit$  (State 


have  seen  a  heart  in  the  reverie — have  felt  that 
it  was  real,  true.  They  know  it ;  a  secret 
influence  has  told  it.  What  matters  it,  pray, 
if  literally,  there  was  no  wife,  and  no  dead 
child,  and  no  coffin  in  the  house  ?  Is  not  feel- 
ing, feeling ;  and  heart,  heart !  Are  not  these 
fancies  thronging  on  my  brain,  bringing  tears 
to  my  eyes,  bringing  joy  to  my  soul,  as  living, 
as  anything  human  can  be  living?  What  if 
they  have  no  material  type — no  objective 
form?  All  that  is  crude — a  mere  reduction 
of  ideality  to  sense — a  transformation  of  the 
spiritual  to  the  earthy — a  leveling  of  soul  to 
matter. 

Are  we  not  creatures  of  thought  and  passion  ? 
Is  anything  about  us  more  earnest  than  that 
same  thought  and  passion  ?  Is  there  anything 
more  real — more  characteristic  of  that  great 
and  dim  destiny  to  which  we  are  born,  and 
which  may  be  written  down  in  that  terrible 
word — Forever  ? 

Let  those  who  will  then,  sneer  at  what  in 
their  wisdom  they  call  untruth — at  what  is 
false,  because  it  has  no  material  presence  :  this 
does  not  create  falsity ;  would  to  Heaven  that 
it  did ! 

6 


a  City  (Brate 


And  yet  if  there  was  actual,  material  truth, 
superadded  to  reverie,  would  such  objectors 
sympathize  the  more  ?  No  !  a  thousand  times, 
no;  the  heart  that  has  no  sympathy  with 
thoughts  and  feelings  that  scorch  the  soul,  is 
dead  also — whatever  its  mocking  tears,  and 
gestures  may  say — to  a  coffin  or  a  grave ! 

Let  them  pass,  and  we  will  come  back  to 
these  cherished  letters. 

A  mother,  who  has  lost  a  child,  has,  she  says, 
shed  a  tear — not  one,  but  many — over  the  dead 
boy's  coldness.  And  another,  who  has  not 
lost,  but  who  trembles  lest  she  lose,  has  found 
the  words  failing  as  she  read,  and  a  dim,  sor- 
row-borne mist,  spreading  over  the  page. 

Another,  yet  rejoicing  in  all  those  family 
ties,  that  make  life  a  charm,  has  listened 
nervously  to  careful  reading,  until  the  husband 
is  called  home,  and  the  coffin  is  in  the  house — 
"  Stop !" — she  says  ;  and  a  gush  of  tears  tells  the 
rest. 

Yet  the  cold  critic  will  say — "It  was  art- 
fully done."  A  curse  on  him  ! — it  was  not  art : 
it  was  nature. 

Another,  a  young,  fresh,  healthful  girl- 
mind,  has  seen  something  in  the  love-picture — 
7 


a  Cttp  (Brate 


albeit  so  weak — of  truth ;  and  has  kindly  be- 
lieved that  it  must  be  earnest.  Ay,  indeed  is 
it,  fair,  and  generous  one — earnest  as  life  and 
hope  !  Who,  indeed,  with  a  heart  at  all,  that 
has  not  yet  slipped  away  irreparably,  and  for- 
ever from  the  shores  of  youth — from  that  fairy- 
land which  young  enthusiasm  creates,  and  over 
which  bright  dreams  hover — but  knows  it  to 
be  real  ?  And  so  such  things  will  be  real,  till 
hopes  are  dashed,  and  death  is  come. 

Another,  a  father,  has  laid  down  the  book 
in  tears. 

God  bless  them  all!  How  far  better 

this,  than  the  cold  praise  of  newspaper  para- 
graphs, or  the  critically  contrived  approval  of 
colder  friends  ! 

Let  me  gather  up  these  letters,  carefully — 
to  be  read  when  the  heart  is  faint,  and  sick  of 
all  that  there  is  unreal,  and  selfish  in  the  world. 
Let  me  tie  them  together,  with  a  new  and 
longer  bit  of  ribbon — not  by  a  love-knot,  that 
is  too  hard — but  by  an  easy-slipping  knot,  that 
so  I  may  get  at  them  the  better.  And  now, 
they  are  all  together,  a  snug  packet,  and  we 
will  label  them,  not  sentimentally  (I  pity  the 
one  who  thinks  it !),  but  earnestly,  and  in 
8 


a  Cttp  Grate 


the  best  meaning  of  the  term — SOUVENIKS  DU 
CCEUE. 

Thanks  to  my  first  reverie,  which  has  added 
to  such  a  treasure  ! 

And  now  to  my  SECOND  REVERIE. 

I  am  no  longer  in  the  country.  The  fields, 
the  trees,  the  brooks  are  far  away  from  me, 
and  yet  they  are  very  present.  A  letter 
from  my  tenant — how  different  from  those 
other  letters  ! — lies  upon  my  table,  telling  me 
what  fields  he  has  broken  up  for  the  autumn 
grain,  and  how  many  beeves  he  is  fattening, 
and  how  the  potatoes  are  turning  out. 

But  I  am  in  a  garret  of  the  city.  From  my 
window  I  look  over  a  mass  of  crowded  house- 
tops— moralizing  often  upon  the  scene,  but  in 
a  strain  too  long,  and  somber  to  be  set  down 
here.  In  place  of  the  wide  country  chimney, 
with  its  iron  fire-dogs,  is  a  snug  grate,  where 
the  maid  makes  me  a  fire  in  the  morning,  and 
rekindles  it  in  the  afternoon. 

I  am  usually  fairly  seated  in  my  chair — a 
cozily  stuffed  office  chair — by  five  or  six  o'clock 
of  the  evening.  The  fire  has  been  newly  made, 
perhaps  an  hour  before :  first,  the  maid  drops' 
a  withe  of  paper  in  the  bottom  of  the  grate, 
9 


&;/ 
^/'^i 


2-;/   'A     X*i\>'~*''^"'      V  l   ,    '•'?*   i»  u  (  *  '      '•/ 

,<^^- '•'":;':. :    t  -';;0; .''.'',  .^V.  V 

-»  Aj^y^          "  v J*  ',i  vW/ 'X,  /V>o     '  '  . ' 

"^-^'.'.'O    r^rtf^'' '^ 

;;f ..  Ms? 
.:^is.  k  ^^^ 

^^ 


a  City  (Brate 


then  a  stick  or  two  of  pine- wood,  and  after  it 
a  hod  of  Liverpool  coal ;  so  that  by  the  time  I 
am  seated  for  the  evening,  the  sea-coal  is  fairly 
in  a  blaze. 

When  this  has  sunk  to  a  level  with  the 
second  bar  of  the  grate,  the  maid  replenishes 
it  with  a  hod  of  anthracite ;  and  I  sit  musing 
and  reading,  while  the  new  coal  warms  and 
kindles — not  leaving  my  place,  until  it  has 
sunk  to  the  third  bar  of  the  grate,  which  marks 
my  bedtime. 

I  love  these  accidental  measures  of  the  hours, 
which  belong  to  you,  and  your  life,  and  not  to 
the  world.  A  watch  is  no  more  the  measure 
of  your  time,  than  of  the  time  of  your  neigh- 
bors ;  a  church  clock  is  as  public,  and  vulgar  as 
a  church-warden.  I  would  as  soon  think  of 
hiring  the  parish  sexton  to  make  my  bed,  as  to 
regulate  my  time  by  the  parish  clock. 

A  shadow  that  the  sun  casts  upon  your 
carpet,  or  a  streak  of  light  on  the  slated  roof 
yonder,  or  the  burning  of  your  fire,  are  pleasant 
time-keepers  full  of  presence,  full  of  companion- 
ship, and  full  of  the  warning — time  is  passing ! 

In  the  summer  season  I  have  even  measured 
my  reading,  and  my  night-watch,  by  the  burn- 


a 


(Brate 


ing  of  a  taper ;  and  I  have  scratched  upon  the 
handle  to  the  little  bronze  taper-holder,  that 
meaning  passage  of  the  New  Testament — Nug 
Yap  spiral — the  night  cometh  ! 

But  I  must  get  upon  my  reverie :  it  was  a 
drizzly  evening;  I  had  worked  hard  during 
the  day,  and  had  drawn  my  boots — thrust  my 
feet  into  slippers — thrown  on  a  Turkish  loose 
dress,  and  Greek  cap — souvenirs  to  me  of  other 
times,  and  other  places,  and  sat  watching  the 
lively,  uncertain  yellow  play  of  the  bituminous 
flame. 


11 


18$  a  Cits  <5trate 

b          i. 


SEA-COAL 

IT  is  like  a  flirt — mused  I ;  lively,  uncertain, 
bright-colored,  waving  here  and  there,  melting 
the  coal  into  black  shapeless  mass,  making  foul, 
sooty  smoke,  and  pasty,  trashy  residuum ! 
Yet  withal — pleasantly  sparkling,  dancing, 
prettily  waving,  and  leaping  like  a  roebuck 
from  point  to  point. 

How  like  a  flirt  1  And  yet  is  not  this  toss- 
ing caprice  of  girlhood,  to  which  I  liken  my 
sea-coal  flame,  a  native  play  of  life,  and  be- 
longing by  nature  to  the  play-time  of  life  ?  Is 
it  not  a  sort  of  essential  fire-kindling  to  the 
weightier  and  truer  passions — even  as  Jenny 
puts  the  soft  coal  first,  the  better  to  kindle  the 
anthracite  ?  Is  it  not  a  sort  of  necessary  con- 
sumption of  young  vapors,  which  float  in  the 
soul,  and  which  is  left  thereafter  the  purer  ? 
Is  there  not  a  stage  somewhere  in  every  man's 
youth,  for  just  such  waving,  idle,  heart-blaze, 
12 

;::,     :;. 


a  £it    (Brate 


which  means  nothing,  yet  which  must  be  got 
over? 

Lamartine  says,  somewhere,  very  prettily, 
that  there  is  more  of  quick  running  sap,  and 
floating  shade  in  a  young  tree;  but  more  of 
fire  in  the  heart  of  a  sturdy  oak — II  y  a  plus 
de  seve  folle  et  d'oiribre  flottante  dans  les  ', 
jeunes  plants  de  la  foret  j  il  y  a  plus  de  feu 
dans  le  vieux  cceur  du  chene. 

• 

Is  Lamartine  playing  off  his  prettiness  of 
expression,  dressing  up  with  his  poetry — mak- 
ing a  good  conscience  against  the  ghost  of 
some  accusing  Graziella,  or  is  there  truth  in 
the  matter  ? 

A  man  who  has  seen  sixty  years,  whether 
widower  or  bachelor,  may  well  put  such  senti- 
ment into  words :  it  feeds  his  wasted  heart 
with  hope ;  it  renews  the  exultation  of  youth 
by  the  pleasantest  of  equivocation,  and  the 
most  charming  of  self-confidence.  But  after 
all,  is  it  not  true  ?  Is  not  the  heart  like  new 
blossoming  field-plants,  whose  first  flowers  are 
half-formed,  one-sided  perhaps,  but  by  and  by, 
in  maturity  of  season,  putting  out  wholesome, 
well-formed  blossoms  that  will  hold  their 
leaves  long  and  bravely  ? 
13 


a  Cits  6rate 


Bulvver  in  his  story  of  the  Caxtons,  has 
counted  first  heart-flights  mere  fancy -passages 
— a  dalliance  with  the  breezes  of  love,  which 
pass,  and  leave  healthful  heart  appetite.  Half 
the  reading  world  has  read  the  story  of  Tre- 
vanion  and  Pisistratus.  But  Bulvver  is — past ; 
his  heart-life  is  used  up — epuise.  Such  a  man 
can  very  safely  rant  about  the  cool  judgment 
of  after  years. 

Where  does  Shakespeare  put  the  unripe 
heart-age  ?  All  of  it  before  the  ambition,  that 
alone  makes  the  hero-soul.  The  Shakespeare 
man  "  sighs  like  a  furnace,"  before  he  stretches 
his  arm  to  achieve  the  "  bauble,  reputation." 

Yet  Shakespeare  has  meted  a  soul-love, 
mature  and  ripe,  without  any  young  furnace 
sighs  to  Desdemona  and  Othello.  Cordelia, 
the  sweetest  of  his  play  creations,  loves  with- 
out any  of  the  mawkish  matter,  which  makes 
the  whining  love  of  a  Juliet.  And  Florizel  in 
the  Winter's  Tale,  says  to  Perdita  in  the  true 
spirit  of  a  most  sound  heart : 

My  desires 

Run  not  before  mine  honor,  nor  my  wishes 
Burn  hotter  than  my  faith. 

How  is  it  with  Hector  and  Andromache? 
14 


a 


(Srate 


no  sea-coal  blaze,  but  one  that  is  constant,  en- 
during, pervading:  a  pair  of  hearts  full  of 
esteem,  and  best  love — good,  honest,  and 
sound. 

Look  now  at  Adam  and  Eve,  in  God's  pres- 
ence, with  Milton  for  showman.  Shall  we 
quote  by  this  sparkling  blaze,  a  gem.  from  the 
Paradise  Lost  ?  "We  will  hum  it  to  ourselves 
— what  Raphael  sings  to  Adam — a  classic 
song. 

Him,  serve  and  fear  ! 

Of  other  creatures,  as  Him  pleases  best 
Wherever  placed,  let  Him  dispose  ;  joy  thou 
In  what  he  gives  to  thee,  this  Paradise 
And  thy  fair  eve  ! 

And  again : 

Love  refines 

The  thoughts,  and  heart  enlarges ;  hath  his  seat 

In  reason,  and  is  judicious  :  is  the  scale 

By  which  to  heavenly  love  thou  may'st  ascend  ! 

None  of  the  playing  sparkle  in  this  love, 
which  belongs  to  the  flame  of  my  sea-coal  fire 
that  is  now  dancing,  lively  as  a  cricket.  But 
on  looking  about  my  garret  chamber,  I  can  see 
nothing  that  resembles  the  archangel  Raphael, 
or  "  thy  fair  Eve." 


<; 


M 


a 


Grate 


There  is  a  degree  of  moisture  about  the  sea- 
coal  flame,  which  with  the  most  earnest  of  my 
musing,  I  find  it  impossible  to  attach  to  that 
idea  of  a  waving  sparkling  heart  which  my 
fire  suggests.  A  damp  heart  must  be  a  foul 
thing  to  be  sure.  But  whoever  heard  of  one  ? 

Wordsworth  somewhere  in  the  Excursion 
says: 

The  good  die  first, 

.  And  they  whose  hearts  are  dry  as  summer  dust 
Burn  to  the  socket ! 

"What,  in  the  name  of  Eydal  Mount,  is  a  dry 
heart  ?  A  dusty  one,  I  can  conceive  of :  a 
bachelor's  heart  must  be  somewhat  dusty,  as 
he  nears  the  sixtieth  summer  of  his  pilgrimage 
— and  hung  over  with  cobwebs,  in  which  sit 
such  watchful  gray  old  spiders  as  avarice,  and 
selfishness,  forever  on  the  lookout  for  such 
bottle-green  flies  as  lust. 

"  I  will  never  " — said  I — griping  at  the 
elbows  of  my  chair — "live  a  bachelor  till 
sixty — never,  so  surely  as  there  is  hope  in  man, 
or  charity  in  woman,  or  faith  in  both  !  " 

And  with  that  thought,  my  heart  leaped 
about  in  playful  coruscations,  even  like  the 
16 


a  Ctt£  Grate 


flame  of  the  sea-coal — rising,  and  wrapping 
round  old  and  tender  memories,  and  images 
that  were  present  to  me — trying  to  cling,  and 
yet  no  sooner  fastened,  than  off — dancing 
again,  riotous  in  its  exultation — a  succession  of 
heart-sparkles,  blazing,  and  going  out ! 

—And  is  there  not — mused  I — a  portion  of 
this  world,  forever  blazing  in  just  such  lively 
sparkles,  waving  here  and  there  as  the  air- 
currents  fan  them  ? 

Take  for  instance,  your  heart  of  sentiment, 
and  quick  sensibility,  a  weak,  warm-working 
heart,  flying  off  in  tangents  of  unhappy  in- 
fluence, unguided  by  prudence,  and  perhaps 
virtue.  There  is  a  paper  by  Mackenzie,  in  the 
Mirror  for  April,  1780,  which  sets  this  un- 
toward sensibility  in  a  strong  light. 

And  the  more  it  is  indulged,  the  more  strong 
and  binding  such  a  habit  of  sensibility  be- 
comes. Poor  Mackenzie  himself  must  have 
suffered  thus ;  you  cannot  read  his  books  with- 
out feeling  it ;  your  eye,  in  spite  of  you,  runs 
over  with  his  sensitive  griefs,  while  you  are 
half  ashamed  of  his  success  at  picture-making. 
It  is  a  terrible  inheritance;  and  one  that  a 
strong  man  or  woman  will  study  to  subdue: 
17 


a  Cits  Grate 


it  is  a  vain  sea-coal  sparkling,  which  will  count 
no  good.  The  world  is  made  of  much  hard, 
flinty  substance,  against  which  your  better, 
and  holier  thoughts  will  be  striking  fire — see 
to  it,  that  the  sparks  do  not  burn  you ! 

But  what  a  happy,  careless  life  belongs  to 
is  bachelorhood,  in  which  you  may  strike 
it  boldly  right  and  left !     Your  heart  is  not 
bound  to  another  which  may  be  full  of  only 
sickly  vapors  of  feeling :  nor  is  it  frozen  to  a 
cold,  man's  heart  under  a  silk  bodice — know- 
ing nothing  of  tenderness  but  the  name,  to 
prate  of;  and  nothing  of  soul-confidence,  but 
clumsy   confession.     And  if  in  your  careless 
out-goings   of   feeling,  you  get  here,  only  a 
little  lip  vapidity  in  return  ;  be  sure  that  you 
will  find,  elsewhere,  a  true  heart  utterance. 
This  last  you  will  cherish  in  your  inner  soul — 
a  nucleus  for  a  new  group  of  affections ;  and 
he  other  will  pass  with  a  whiff  of  your  cigar. 
Or  if  your  feelings  are  touched,  struck,  hurt, 
ho  is  the  wiser,  or  the  worse,  but  you  only  ? 
nd  have  you  not  the  whole  skein  of  your 
.^  .-eart-life  in  your  own  fingers  to  wind,  or  un- 
'/y/jwind,  in  what  shape  you  please  ?     Shake  it,  or 
(|  f' twine  it,  or  tangle  it,  by  the  light  of  your  fire, 

18 


a  Cits  Grate 


as  you  fancy  best.  He  is  a  weak  man  who 
cannot  twist  and  weave  the  threads  of  his  feel- 
ing— however  fine,  however  tangled,  however 
strained,  or  however  strong — into  the  great 
cable  of  purpose,  by  which  he  lies  moored  to 
his  life  of  action. 

Beading  is  a  great,  and  happy  disentangler 
of  all  those  knotted  snarls — those  extravagant 
vagaries,  which  belong  to  a  heart  sparkling 
with    sensibility;    but  the   reading   must  be 
cautiously    directed.      There    is    old,    placid 
Burton,    when    your    soul    is    weak,    and   its 
digestion   of   life's   humors   is   bad ;    there   is    ;: 
Cowper   when   your   spirit  runs  into  kindly,  ; 
half-sad,   religious  musing;    there   is   Crabbe 
when  you  would  shake  off  vagary,  by  a  little 
handling     of     sharp     actualities.      There     is':y 
Yoltaire,  a   homeopathic  doctor,   whom  you         ; 
can  read  when  you  want  to  make  a  play  of 
life,  and  crack  jokes  at  nature,  and  be  witty 
with  destiny ;    there  is  Eousseau,  when  you 
want  to  lose  yourself  in  a  mental  dreamland, 
and  be  beguiled  by  the  harmony  of  soul-music 
and  soul-culture. 

And  when  you  would  shake  off  this,  and  be 
sturdiest  among  the  battlers  for  hard,  world- 
19 


a  Cttp  (Brate 


success,  and  be  forewarned  of  rocks  against 
which  you  must  surely  smite — read  Boling- 
broke — run  over  the  letters  of  Lyttleton;  read, 
and  think  of  what  you  read,  in  the  cracking 
lines  of  Rochefoucauld.  How  he  sums  us  up 
in  his  stinging  words  ! — how  he  puts  the  scalpel 
between  the  nerves — yet  he  never  hurts ;  for 
he  is  dissecting  dead  matter. 

If  you  are  in  a  genial,  careless  mood,  who  is 
better  than  such  extemporizers  of  feeling  and 
nature — good-hearted  fellows — as  Sterne  and 
Fielding  ? 

And  then  again,  there  are  Milton  and  Isaiah, 
to  lift  up  one's  soul  until  it  touches  cloud-land, 
and  you  wander  with  their  guidance,  on  swift 
feet,  to  the  very  gates  of  heaven. 

But  this  sparkling  sensibility  to  one  strug- 
gling under  infirmity,  or  with  grief  or  poverty, 
is  very  dreadful.  The  soul  is  too  nicely  and 
keenly  hinged  to  be  wrenched  without  mis- 
chief. How  it  shrinks,  like  a  hurt  child,  from 
all  that  is  vulgar,  harsh,  and  crude  !  Alas,  for 
such  a  man  ! — he  will  be  buffeted,  from  begin- 
ning to  end ;  his  life  will  be  a  sea  of  troubles. 
The  poor  victim  of  his  own  quick  spirit  he 
Zanders  with  a  great  shield  of  doubt  hung  be- 
20 


a  City  (Brate 


lore  him,  so  that  none,  not  even  friends,  can 
see  the  goodness  of  such  kindly  qualities  as  be- 
long to  him.  Poverty,  if  it  comes  upon  him, 
he  wrestles  with  in  secret,  with  strong,  frenzied 
struggles.  He  wraps  his  scant  clothes  about 
him  to  keep  him  from  the  cold ;  and  eyes  the 
world,  as  if  every  creature  in  it  was  breathing 
chill  blasts  at  him,  from  every  opened  mouth. 
He  threads  the  crowded  ways  of  the  city,  proud 
in  his  griefs,  vain  in  his  weakness,  not  stopping 
to  do  good.  Bulwer,  in  the  New  Timon,  has 
painted  in  a  pair  of  stinging  Pope-like  lines, 
this  feeling  in  a  woman  : 

Her  vengeful  pride,  a  kind  of  madness  grown, 

She  hugged  her  wrongs,  her  sorrow  was  her  throne  ! 

Cold  picture!  yet  the  heart  was  sparkling 
under  it,  like  my  sea-coal   fire;   lifting  and 
blazing,  and  lighting  and  falling — but  with  no 
object ;  and  only  such  little  heat  as  begins  and   ^| 
ends  within. 

Those  fine  sensibilities,  ever  active,  are  chas-  | 
ing  and  observing  all ;  they  catch  a  hue  from 
what  the  dull  and  callous  pass  by  unnoticed — 
because  unknown.  They  blunder  at  the  great 
variety  of  the  world's  opinions ;  they  see  tokens 
21 


a  Cits  (Brate 


of  belief,  where  others  see  none.  That  deli- 
cate organization  is  a  curse  to  a  man :  and  yet, 
poor  fool,  he  does  not  see  where  his  cure  lies  ; 
he  wonders  at  his  griefs,  and  has  never  reckoned 
with  himself  their  source.  He  studies  others, 
without  studying  himself.  He  eats  the  leaves 
that  sicken,  and  never  plucks  up  the  root  that 
will  cure. 

With  a  woman  it  is  worse;  with  her,  this 
delicate  susceptibility  is  like  a  frail  flower,  that 
quivers  at  every  rough  blast  of  heaven;  her 
own  delicacy  wounds  her ;  her  highest  charm 
is  perverted  to  a  curse. 

She  listens  with  fear ;  she  reads  with  trem- 
bling ;  she  looks  with  dread.  Her  sympathies 
give  a  tone,  like  the  harp  of  ^Eolus,  to  the 
slightest  breath.  Her  sensibility  lights  up, 
and  quivers  and  falls,  like  the  flame  of  a  sea- 
coal  fire. 

If  she  loves  (and  may  not  a  bachelor  reason 
on  this  daintiest  of  topics),  her  love  is  a  gush- 
ing, wavy  flame,  lit  up  with  hope,  that  has  only 
a  little  kindling  matter  to  light  it ;  and  this 
soon  burns  out.  Yet  intense  sensibility  will 
persuade  her  that  the  flame  still  scorches.  She 
will  mistake  the  annoyance  of  affection  unre- 
22 


a  Cit£  Grate 


quited  for  the  sting  of  a  passion,  that  she 
fancies  still  burns.  She  does  not  look  deep 
enough  to  see  that  the  passion  is  gone,  and  the 
shocked  sensitiveness  emits  only  faint,  yellow- 
ish sparkles  in  its  place ;  her  high- wrought 
organization  makes  those  sparks  seem  a  veri- 
table  flame. 

With  her,  judgment,  prudence,  and  discre- 
tion  are  cold  measured  terms,  which  have  no 
meaning,  except  as  they  attach  to  the  actions 
of  others.  Of  her  own  acts  she  never  predi- 
cates them ;  feeling  is  much  too  high,  to  allow 
her  to  submit  to  any  such  obtrusive  guides  of 
conduct.  She  needs  disappointment  to  teach 
her  truth;  to  teach  that  all  is  not  gold  that 
glitters — to  teach  that  all  warmth  does  not 
blaze.  But  let  her  beware  how  she  sinks 
under  any  fancied  disappointments :  she  who 
sinks  under  real  disappointment,  lacks  philos- 
ophy ;  but  she  who  sinks  under  a  fancied  one, 
lacks  purpose.  Let  her  flee  as  the  plague  such 
brooding  thoughts  as  she  will  love  to  cherish  ; 
let  her  spurn  dark  fancies  as  visitants  of  hell ; 
let  the  soul  rise  with  the  blaze  of  new-kindled, 
active  and  world-wide  emotions,  and  so 
brighten  into  steady  and  constant  flame.  Let 
23 


a  Cit    (Srate 


her  abjure  such  poets  as  Cowper,  or  Byron,  or 
even  Wordsworth ;  and  if  she  must  poetize,  let 
her  lay  her  mind  to  such  manly  verse  as 
Pope's,  or  to  such  sound  and  ringing  organry 
as  Cornus. 

My  fire  was  getting  dull,  and  I  thrust  in  the 
poker :  it  started  up  on  the  instant  into  a  hun- 
dred little  angry  tongues  of  flame. 

Just  so — thought  I — the  over-sensitive 

heart  once  cruelly  disturbed,  will  fling  out  a 
score  of  flaming  passions,  darting  here  and 
darting  there — half-smoke,  half-flame — love 
and  hate — canker  and  joy — wild  in  its  mad- 
ness, not  knowing  whither  its  sparks  are  flying. 
Once  break  roughly  upon  the  affections,  or 
even  the  fancied  affections  of  such  a  soul,  and 
you  breed  a  tornado  of  maddened  action — a 
whirlwind  of  fire  that  hisses,  and  sends  out 
jets  of  wild,  impulsive  combustion,  that  make 
the  bystanders — even  those  most  friendly — 
stand  aloof  until  the  storm  is  past. 

But  this  is  not  all  the  dashing  flame  of  my 
sea-coal  suggests. 

How  like  a  flirt !  mused  I  again,  recur- 
ring to  my  first  thought — so  lively,  yet  uncer- 
tain ;  so  bright  yet  so  flickering !  Your  true 
24 


a  City  (Brate 


flirt  plays  with  sparkles ;  her  heart,  much  as 
there  is  of  it,  spends  itself  in  sparkles;  she 
measures  it  to  sparkle,  and  habit  grows  into 
nature,  so  that  anon,  it  can  only  sparkle.  How 
carefully  she  cramps  it,  if  the  flames  show  too 
great  a  heat;  how  dexterously  she  flings  its 
blaze  here  and  there ;  how  coyly  she  subdues 
it ;  how  winningly  she  lights  it ! 

All  this  is  the  entire  reverse  of  the  unpre- 
meditated dartings  of  the  soul  at  which  I  have 
been  looking ;  sensibility  scorns  heart-curb- 
ings,  and  heart-teachings ;  sensibility  inquires 
not — how  much !  but  only — where  ? 

Your  true  flirt  has  a  coarse-grained  soul; 
well  modulated  and  well  tutored,  but  there  is 
no  fineness  in  it.  All  its  native  fineness  is 
made  coarse,  by  coarse  efforts  of  the  will. 
True  feeling  is  a  rustic  vulgarity,  the  flirt  does 
not  tolerate ;  she  counts  its  healthiest  and  most 
honest  manifestation,  all  sentiment.  Yet  she 
will  play  you  off  a  pretty  string  of  sentiment, 
which  she  has  gathered  from  the  poets;  she 
adjusts  it  prettily  as  a  Gobelin  weaver  adjusts 
the  colors  in  his  tapis.  She  shades  it  off  de- 
lightfully; there  are  no  bold  contrasts,  but  a 
most  artistic  mellow  of  nuances. 
25 


V 


a  Cits  (State 


••,     '"': 
*&,*' 


She  smiles  like  a  wizard,  and  jingles  it  with 
a  laugh,  such  as  tolled  the  poor  home-bound 
:&-.      Ulysses  to  the  Circean  bower.     She  has  a  cast 
^p'     of  the  head,  apt  and  artful  as  the  most  dexter- 
ous  cast  of  the  best  trout-killing  rod.     Her 
words  sparkle,  and  flow  hurriedly,  and  with 
[f|k      the  prettiest  doubleness  of  meaning.     Natural- 
.:'!!'     ness  she  copies,  and  she  scorns.     She  accuses 
herself  of  a  single  expression  or  regard,  which 
nature   prompts.     She  prides   herself  on  her 
schooling.     She  measures  her  wit  by  the  tri- 
umphs of  her  art ;  she  chuckles  over  her  own 
falsity  to  herself.     And  if  by  chance  her  soul 
— such  germ  as  is  left  of  it — betrays  her  into 
untoward  confidence,  she  condemns  herself,  as 
if  she  had  committed  crime. 

She  is  always  gay,  because  she  has  no  depth 
;  :  of  feeling  to  be  stirred.     The  brook  that  runs 

vis     shallow  over  hard  pebbly  bottom  always  rustles. 
Q       She  is  light-hearted,  because  her  heart  floats  in 
sparkles — like  my  sea-coal  fire.     She  counts  on 
marriage,   not    as   the  great  absorbent   of  a 
heart's-love,  and  life,  but  as  a  happy,  feasible, 
and    orderly    conventionality,   to    be    played 
with,   and    kept   at   distance,   and   finally   to 
be  accepted  as  a  cover  for  the  faint  and  taw- 
26 


a 


<5rate 


dry  sparkles  of  an  old  and  cherished  heartless- 
ness. 

She  will  not  pine  under  any  regrets,  because 
she  has  no  appreciation  of  any  loss:  she  will 
not  chafe  at  indifference,  because  it  is  her  art ; 
she  will  not  be  worried  with  jealousies,  because 
she  is  ignorant  of  love.  With  no  conception 
of  the  soul  in  its  strength  and  fulness,  she  sees 
no  lack  of  its  demands.  A  thrill,  she  does  not 
know ;  a  passion,  she  cannot  imagine ;  joy  is  a 
name ;  grief  is  another ;  and  life,  with  its  crowd- 
ing scenes  of  love,  and  bitterness,  is  a  play  upon 
the  stage. 

I  think  it  is  Madame  Dudevant  who  says,  in 
something  like  the  same  connection :  Lea  hiboux 
ne  connaissent  pas  le  chernin  par  ou  les  aigles 
vont  au  soleil. 

Poor  Ned  !  mused  I,  looking  at  the  play 

of  the  fire — was  a  victim  and  a  conqueror.  He 
was  a  man  of  a  full,  strong  nature — not  a  little 
impulsive — with  action  too  full  of  earnestness 
for  most  of  men  to  see  its  drift.  He  had 
known  little  of  what  is  called  the  world ;  he 
was  fresh  in  feeling  and  high  of  hope  ;  he  had 
been  encircled  always  by  friends  who  lov 
him,  and  who,  may  be,  flattered  him.  Scarce 
27 


a 


(State 


had  he  entered  upon  the  tangled  life  of  the 
city,  before  he  met  with  a  sparkling  face  and  an 
airy  step,  that  stirred  something  in  poor  Ned, 
that  he  had  never  felt  before.  With  him,  to 
feel  was  to  act.  He  was  not  one  to  be  despised  ; 
for  notwithstanding  he  wore  a  country  air,  and 
the  awkwardness  of  a  man  who  has  yet  the 
bienseance  of  social  life  before  him,  he  had  the 
soul,  the  courage,  and  the  talent  of  a  strong 
man.  Little  gifted  in  the  knowledge  of  face- 
play,  he  easily  mistook  those  coy  maneuvers 
of  a  sparkling  heart,  for  something  kindred  to 
his  own  true  emotions. 

She  was  proud  of  the  attentions  of  a  man 
who  carried  a  mind  in  his  brain  ;  and  flattered 
poor  Ned  almost  into  servility.  Ned  had  no 
friends  to  counsel  him  ;  or  if  he  had  them,  his 
impulses  would  have  blinded  him.  Never  was 
dodger  more  artful  at  the  Olympic  Games  than 
the  Peggy  of  Ned's  heart-affection.  He  was 
charmed,  beguiled,  entranced. 

When  Ned  spoke  of  love,  she  staved  it  off 
with  the  prettiest  of  sly  looks  that  only  be- 
wildered him  the  more.  A  charming  creature 
to  be  sure ;  coy  as  a  dove ! 

So  he  went  on,  poor  fool,  until  one  day — he 
28 


a 


<5rate 


told  me  of  it  with  the  blood  mounting  to  his 
temples,  and  his  eye  shooting  flame — he  suf- 
fered his  feelings  to  run  out  in  passionate 
avowal — entreaty — everything.  She  gave  a 
pleasant,  noisy  laugh,  and  manifested — such 
pretty  surprise  ! 

He  was  looking  for  the  intense  glow  of 
passion ;  and  lo,  there  was  nothing  but  the 
shifting  sparkle  of  a  sea-coal  flame. 

I  wrote  him  a  letter  of  condolence — for  I 
was  his  senior  by  a  year  ;  "  My  dear  fellow," 
said  I,  "  diet  yourself ;  you  can  find  greens  at 
the  up-town  market ;  eat  a  little  fish  with  your 
dinner ;  abstain  from  heating  drinks :  don't  put 
too  much  butter  to  your  cauliflower ;  read  one 
of  Jeremy  Taylor's  sermons,  and  translate  all 
the  quotations  at  sight ;  run  carefully  over  that 
exquisite  picture  of  Geo.  Dandin  in  your  Mo- 
liere,  and  my  word  for  it,  in  a  week  you  will  be 
sound  man." 

He  was  too  angry  to  reply ;  but  eighteen 
months  thereafter  I  got  a  thick,  three-sheeted 
letter,  with  a  dove  upon  the  seal,  telling  me 
that  he  was  as  happy  as  a  king :  he  said  he 
had  married  a  good-hearted,  domestic,  loving 
wife,  who  was  as  lovely  as  a  June  day,  and 
29 


a  Ctt\>  (Brate 


that  their  baby,  not  three  months  old,  was  as 
vibright  as  a  spot  of  June  day  sunshine  on  the 
.  grass. 

.;'•    -  What  a  tender,  delicate,  loving  wife  — 
I  —  such  flashing,  flaming  flirt  must  in 


:  the  end  make  ;  the  prostitute  of  fashion  ;  the 

••bauble  of  fifty  hearts  idle  as  hers  ;  the  shifting 
'inake-piece  of  a  stage  scene  ;  the  actress,  now 
in  peasant,  and  now  in  princely  petticoats! 
,How  it  would  cheer  an  honest  soul  to  call  her 
r—  his  !  What  a  culmination  of  his  heart-life  : 
what  a  rich  dream-land  to  be  realized  ! 

-  Bah  !  and  I  thrust  the  poker  into  the 
clotted  mass  of  fading  coal  —  just  such,  and  so 
worthless  is  the  used  heart  of  a  city  flirt  ;  just 
So  the  incessant  sparkle  of  her  life,  and  fritter- 
ing passions,  fuses  all  that  is  sound  and  com- 
bustible,  into  black,  soothy,  shapeless  residuum. 
When  I  marry  a  flirt,  I  will  buy  second-hand 

/"dlothes  of  the  Jews. 

®  -  Still  —  mused  I  —  as  the  flame  danced 
f|gain  —  there  is  a  distinction  between  coquetry 
and  flirtation. 

|  A   coquette    sparkles,   but   it   is   more  the 

sparkle  of  a  harmless  and  pretty  vanity,  than 

Of  calculation.     It  is  the  play  of  humors  in  the 

30 


a  Citp  (Brate 


blood,  and  not  the  play  of  purpose  at  the  heart. 
It  will  flicker  around  a  true  soul  like  the  blaze 
around  an  omelette  au  r/ium,  leaving  the  kernel 
sounder  and  warmer. 

Coquetry,  with  all  its  pranks  and  teasings, 
makes  the  spice  to  your  dinner — the  mulled 
wine  to  your  supper.  It  will  drive  you  tcV 
desperation,  only  to  bring  you  back  hotter  to: 
the  fray.  Who  would  boast  a  victory  that 
cost  no  strategy,  and  no  careful  disposition  of 
the  forces  ?  Who  would  bulletin  such  suc- 
cess as  my  Uncle  Toby's,  in  the  back  garden, 
with  only  the  Corporal  Trim  for  assailant? 
But  let  a  man  be  very  sure  that  the  city  is 
worth  the  siege ! 

Coquetry  whets  the  appetite;  flirtation  de- 
praves it.  Coquetry  is  the  thorn  that  guards 
the  rose — easily  trimmed  off  when  once 
plucked.  Flirtation  is  like  the  slime  on  water 
plants,  making  them  hard  to  handle,  and  when 
caught,  only  to  be  cherished  in  slimy  waters. 

And  so,  with  my  eye  clinging  to  the  flicker 
ing  blaze,  I  see  in  my  reverie,  a  bright  o 
dancing  before  me,  with  sparkling,  coquettish 
smile,  teasing  me  with  the  prettiest  graces  in 
the   world — and   I  grow  maddened    between 


a 


6rate 


hope  and  fear,  and  still  watch  with  my  whole 
soul  in  my  eyes ;  and  see  her  features  by  and 
by  relax  to  pity,  as  a  gleam  of  sensibility 
comes  stealing  over  her  spirit — and  then  to  a 
kindly,  feeling  regard :  presently  she  ap- 
proaches— a  coy  and  doubtful  approach — and 
throws  back  the  ringlets  that  lie  over  her 
cheek,  and  lays  her  hand — a  little  bit  of 
white  hand — timidly  upon  my  strong  fingers 
— and  turns  her  head  daintily  to  one  side — 
and  looks  up  in  my  eyes,  as  they  rest  on 
the  playing  blaze;  and  my  fingers  close  fast 
and  passionately  over  that  little  hand,  like 
a  swift  night-cloud  shrouding  the  pale  tips  of 
Dian — and  my  eyes  draw  nearer  and  nearer  to 
those  blue,  laughing,  pitying,  teasing  eyes,  and 
my  arm  clasps  round  that  shadowy  form — and 
my  lips  feel  a  warm  breath — growing  warmer 
and  warmer 


Just  here  the  maid  comes  in,  throws  upon  the 
fire  a  panful  of  anthracite,  and  my  sparkling 
sea-coal  reverie  is  ended. 


a  Cits  $rate 


ANTHKACITE 

IT  does  not  burn  freely,  so  I  put  on  the 
blower.  Quaint  and  good-natured  Xavier  de 
Maistre 1  would  have  made,  I  dare  say,  a  pretty 
epilogue  about  a  sheet-iron  blower;  but  I 
cannot. 

I  try  to  bring  back  the  image  that  belonged 
to  the  lingering  bituminous  flame,  but  with  my 
eyes  on  that  dark  blower — how  can  I  ? 

It  is  the  black  curtain  of  destiny  which  drops 
down  before  our  brightest  dreams.  How  often 
the  phantoms  of  joy  regale  us,  and  dance  be- 
fore us — golden-winged,  angel-faced,  heart- 
warming, and  make  an  Elysium  in  which  the 
dreaming  soul  bathes,  and  feels  translated  to 
another  existence ;  and  then — sudden  as  night, 
or  a  cloud — a  word,  a  step,  a  thought,  a  mem- 
ory will  chase  them  away,  like  scared  deer 
vanishing  over  a  gray  horizon  of  moor-land ! 

I  know  not  justly,  if  it  be  a  weakness  or  a 

1  Voyage  autour  de  Ma  Chambre. 
33 


a  Cits  (Brate 


sin  to  create  these  phantoms  that  we  love,  and 
to  group  them  into  a  paradise — soul-created. 
But  if  it  is  a  sin,  it  is  a  sweet  and  enchanting 
sin ;  and  if  it  is  a  weakness,  it  is  a  strong  and 
stirring  weakness.  If  this  heart  is  sick  of  the 
falsities  that  meet  it  at  every  hand,  and  is 
eager  to  spend  that  power  which  nature  has 
ribbed  it  with,  on  some  object  worthy  of  its 
fulness  and  depth — shall  it  not  feel  a  rich  re- 
lief— nay  more,  an  exercise  in  keeping  with 
its  end,  if  it  flow  out — strong  as  a  tempest, 
wild  as  a  rushing  river,  upon  those  ideal  crea- 
tions, which  imagination  invents,  and  which 
are  tempered  by  our  best  sense  of  beauty, 
purity,  and  grace  ? 

Unless,  do  you  say?  Ay,  it  is  as  use- 
less as  the  pleasure  of  looking  hour  upon 
hour,  over  bright  landscapes ;  it  is  as  useless 
as  the  rapt  enjoyment  of  listening  with  heart 
full  and  eyes  brimming,  to  such  music  as  the 
Miserere,  at  Home;  it  is  as  useless  as  the 
ecstasy  of  kindling  your  soul  into  fervor  and 
love,  and  madness,  over  pages  that  reek  with 
genius. 

There   are  indeed    base-molded   souls   who 
[now  nothing  of  this ;  they  laugh ;  they  sneer ; 
34 


a  Cttp  <5rate 


they  even  affect  to  pity.  Just  so  the  Huns 
under  the  avenging  Attila,  who  had  been 
used  to  foul  cookery  and  steaks  stewed  under 
their  saddles,  laughed  brutally  at  the  spiced 
banquets  of  an  Apicius  ! 

No,  this  phantom-making  is  no  sin ;  or 

if  it  be,  it  is  sinning  with  a  soul  so  full,  so 
earnest,  that  it  can  cry  to  Heaven  cheerily, 
and  sure  of  a  gracious  hearing — -peccam — 
misericorde !  if 

But  my  fire  is  in  a  glow,  a  pleasant  glow, 
throwing    a    tranquil,    steady    light    to    the 
farthest  corner  of  my  garret.     How  unlike  it         J- 
is,  to  the  flashing  play  of  the  sea-coal ! — un- 
like as  an  unsteady,  uncertain- working  heart 
to   the   true   and   earnest    constancy   of   one    .f--::, 
cheerful  and  right.  ;;  ;\^    -';.•'•*£ ,;| 

After  all,  thought  I,  give  me  such  a  heart ;  IpSt^ 

not  bent  on  vanities,  not  blazing  too  sharp  with     j  '.  ;£v  •  :i 

sensibilities,  not  throwing  out  coquettish  jets 
of  flame,  not  wavering,  and  meaningless  with 
pretended   warmth,   but    open,   glowing   and 
strong.     Its  dark  shades  and  angles  it  may 
have ;  for  what  is  a  soul  worth  that  does  not  ,^  | 
take  a  slaty  tinge  from  those  griefs  that  chill  - 
the  blood?     Yet  still  the  fire  is  gleaming;,.  / 
35 


a  Cits  (State 


you  see  it  in  the  crevices ;  and  anon  it  will 
give  radiance  to  the  whole  mass. 

It  hurts  the  eyes,  this  fire ;  and  I  draw 

up  a  screen  painted  over  with  rough,  but 
graceful  figures. 

The  true  heart  wears  always  the  veil  of 
modesty  (not  of  prudery,  which  is  a  dingy, 
iron,  repulsive  screen).  It  will  not  allow  itself 
to  be  looked  on  too  near — it  might  scorch; 
but  through  the  veil  you  feel  the  warmth;  and 
through  the  pretty  figures  that  modesty  will 
robe  itself  in,  you  can  see  all  the  while  the 
golden  outlines,  and  by  that  token,  you  know 
that  it  is  glowing  and  burning  with  a  pure  and 
steady  flame. 

With  such  a  heart  the  mind  fuses  naturally — 
a  holy  and  heated  fusion ;  they  work  together 
like  twins-born.  With  such  a  heart,  as  Kaphael 
says  to  Adam : 

Love  hath  his  seat 
In  reason,  and  is  judicious. 

But  let  me  distinguish  this  heart  from  your 
clay-cold,   lukewarm,  half-hearted  soul;   con- 
siderate, because  ignorant;  judicious,  because 
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possessed  of  no  latent  fires  that  need  a  curb  ; 
prudish,  because  with  no  warm  blood  to  tempt. 
This  sort  of  soul  may  pass  scatheless  through 
the  fiery  furnace  of  life  ;  strong,  only  in  its 
weakness  ;  pure,  because  of  its  failings  ;  and 
good,  only  by  negation.  It  may  triumph  over 
love,  and  sin,  and  death  ;  but  it  will  be  a 
triumph  of  the  beast,  which  has  neither 
passions  to  subdue,  nor  energy  to  attack,  or 
hope  to  quench. 

Let  us  come  back  to  the  steady  and  earnest 
heart,  glowing  like  my  anthracite  coal. 

I  fancy  I  see  such  a  one  now  ;  the  eye  is 
deep  and  reaches  back  to  the  spirit  ;  it  is  not 
the  trading  eye,  weighing  your  purse;  it  is 
not  the  worldly  eye,  weighing  position  ;  it  is 
not  the  beastly  eye,  weighing  your  appear- 
ance ;  it  is  the  heart's  eye  weighing  your 
soul  ! 

It  is  full  of  deep,  tender,  and  earnest  feel* 
ing.  It  is  an  eye,  which  looked  on  once,  you 
long  to  look  on  again  ;  it  is  an  eye  which  will 
haunt  your  dreams  —  an  eye  which  will  give  a 
color,  in  spite  of  you,  to  all  your  reveries.  It 
is  an  eye  which  lies  before  you  in  your  future, 
like  a  star  in  the  mariner's  heaven  ;  by  it,  un- 


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a  £it\>  (Brate 


consciously,  and  from  force  of  deep  soul  habit, 
you  take  all  your  observations.  It  is  meek 
and  quiet ;  but  it  is  full,  as  a  spring  that  gushes 
in  flood ;  an  Aphrodite  and  a  Mercury — a 
Yaucluse  and  a  Clitumnus. 

The  face  is  an  angel  face ;  no  matter  for 
curious  lines  of  beauty  ;  no  matter  for  popular 
talk  of  prettiness ;  no  matter  for  its  angles,  or 
its  proportions :  no  matter  for  its  color  or  its 
form — the  soul  is  there,  illuminating  every 
feature,  burnishing  every  point,  hallowing 
every  surface.  It  tells  of  honesty,  sincerity, 
and  worth;  it  tells  of  truth  and  virtue — and 
you  clasp  the  image  to  your  heart,  as  the  re- 
ceived ideal  of  your  fondest  dreams. 

The  figure  may  be  this  or  that,  it  may  be 
tall  or  short,  it  matters  nothing — the  heart  is 
there.  The  talk  may  be  soft  or  low,  serious  or 
^piquant — a  free  and  honest  soul  is  warming 
and  softening  it  all.  As  you  speak,  it  speaks 
back  again ;  as  you  think,  it  thinks  again  (not 
in  conjunction,  but  in  the  same  sign  of  the 
Zodiac) ;  as  you  love,  it  loves  in  return. 

It  is  the  heart  for  a  sister,  and  happy  is 

the  man  who  can  claim  such !     The  warmth 

that  lies  in  it  is  not  only  generous,  but  re- 

38 


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ligious,  genial,  devotional,  tender,  self -sacrific- 
ing, and  looking  heavenward. 

A  man  without  some  sort  of  religion,  is  at 
best  a  poor  reprobate,  the  football  of  destiny, 
with  no  tie  linking  him  to  infinity,  and  the 
wondrous  eternity  that  is  begun  with  him  ; 
but  a  woman  without  it,  is  even  worse — a 
flame  without  heat,  a  rainbow  without  color, 
a  flower  without  perfume! 

A  man  may  in  some  sort  tie  his  frail  hopes 
and  honors,  with  weak,  shifting  ground-tackle 
to  business,  or  to  the  world ;  but  a  woman 
without  that  anchor  which  they  call  faith,  is 
adrift,  and  a-wreck !  A  man  may  clumsily 
contrive  a  kind  of  moral  responsibility,  out  of 
his  relations  to  mankind ;  but  a  woman  in  her 
comparatively  isolated  sphere,  where  affection 
and  not  purpose  is  the  controlling  motive,  can 
find  no  basis  for  any  system  of  right  action, 
but  that  of  spiritual  faith. 

A  man  may  craze  his  thought  and  his  brain, 
to  trustfulness  in  such  poor  harborage  as  fame 
and  reputation  may  stretch  before  him  ;  but  a 
woman — where  can  she  put  her  hope  in  storms, 
if  not  in  Heaven  ? 

And  that  sweet  trustfulness — that  abiding 
39 


a  Ctt$  (Brate 


love — that  enduring  hope,  mellowing  every 
page  and  scene  of  life,  lighting  them  with  pleas- 
antest  radiance,  when  the  world-storms  break 
like  an  army  with  smoking  cannon — what  can 
bestow  it  all,  but  a  holy  soul-tie  to  what  is 
above  the  storms,  and  to  what  is  stronger  than 
an  army  with  cannon  ?  Who  that  has  enjoyed 
the  counsel  and  the  love  of  a  Christian  mother, 
but  will  echo  the  thought  with  energy,  and 
hallow  it  with  a  tear  ? — et  moi,je_pleurs  ! 

My  fire  is  now  a  mass  of  red-hot  coal.  The 
whole  atmosphere  of  my  room  is  warm.  The 
heat  that  with  its  glow  can  light  up,  and  warm 
a  garret  with  loose  casements  and  shattered 
roof,  is  capable  of  the  best  love — domestic 
love.  I  draw  farther  off,  and  the  images  upon 
the  screen  change.  The  warmth,  the  hour, 
the  quiet,  create  a  home  feeling ;  and  that 
feeling,  quick  as  lightning,  has  stolen  from  the 
world  of  fancy  (a  Promethean  theft),  a  home 
object,  about  which  my  musings  go  on  to  drape 
.themselves  in  luxurious  reverie. 

There  she  sits,  by  the  corner  of  the  fire, 

in  a  neat  home  dress,  of  sober,  yet  most  adorn- 
ing color.  A  little  bit  of  lace  ruffle  is  gath- 
ered about  the  neck,  by  a  blue  ribbon;  and 
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the  ends  of  the  ribbon  are  crossed  under  the 
dimpling  chin,  and  are  fastened  neatly  by  a 
simple,  unpretending  brooch — your  gift.  The 
arm,  a  pretty  taper  arm,  lies  over  the  carved 
elbow  of  the  oaken  chair  ;  the  hand,  white  and 
delicate,  sustains  a  little  home  volume  that 
hangs  from  her  fingers.  The  forefinger  is  be- 
tween the  leaves,  and  the  others  lie  in  relief 
upon  the  dark  embossed  cover.  She  repeats 
in  a  silver  voice  .a  line  that  has  attracted  her 
fancy ;  and  you  listen — or  at  any  rate,  you  seem 
to  listen — with  your  eyes  now  on  the  lips,  now 
on  the  forehead,  and  now  on  the  finger,  where, 
glitters  like  a  star,  the  marriage  ring — little 
gold  band,  at  which  she  does  not  chafe,  that 
tells  you — she  is  yours  ! 

"Weak  testimonial,  if  that  were  all  that 

told  it !  The  eye,  the  voice,  the  look,  the 
heart,  tells  you  stronger  and  better,  that  she 
is  yours.  And  a  feeling  within,  where  it  lies 
you  know  not,  and  whence  it  comes  you  know 
not,  but  sweeping  over  heart  and  brain,  like  a 
fire-flood,  tells  you  too,  that  you  are  hers! 
Irremediably  bound  as  Massinger's  Hortensio : 

I  am  subject  to  another's  will  and  can 

Nor  speak,  nor  do,  without  permission  from  her ! 

41 


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^- 


^  ,  vv       The  fire  is  warm  as  ever ;  what  length  of 
j±^y   heat  in  this  hard  burning  anthracite  !     It  has 
scarce  sunk  yet  to  the  second  bar  of  the  grate, 
though  the  clock  upon  the  church-tower  has 
tolled  eleven. 

Aye — mused  I,  gayly — such  a  heart  does 

not  grow  faint,  it  does  not  spend  itself  in  idle 
puffs  of  blaze,  it  does  not  become  chilly  with 
the  passing  years ;  but  it  gains  and  grows  in 
strength,  and  heat  until  the  fire  of  life  is  cov- 
ered over  with  the  ashes  of  death.  Strong  or 
hot  as  it  may  be  at  the  first,  it  loses  nothing. 
It  may  not  indeed,  as  time  advances,  throw 
out,  like  the  coal-fire,  when  new-lit,  jets  of 
blue  sparkling  flame ;  it  may  not  continue  to 
bubble,  and  gush  like  a  fountain  at  its  source, 
but  it  will  become  a  strong  river  of  flowing 
charities. 

Clitumnus  breaks  from  under  the  Tuscan 
1  mountains,  almost  a  flood ;  on  a  glorious 
.spring  day  I  leaned  down  and  tasted  the 
water,  as  it  boiled  from  its  sources ;  the  little 
temple  of  white  marble — the  mountainsides 
gray  with  olive  orchards — the  white  streak  of 
road — the  tall  poplars  of  the  river  margin  were 
glistening  in  the  bright  Italian  sunlight  around 


A  \ 
=4) 


a  Cit$  (Brate 


me.  Later,  I  saw  it  when  it  had  become  a 
river — still  clear  and  strong,  flowing  serenely 
between  its  prairie  banks,  on  which  the  white 
cattle  of  the  valley  browsed  ;  and  still  farther 
down  I  welcomed  it,  where  it  joins  the  Arno 
— flowing  slowly  under  wooded  shores,  skirt- 
ing the  fair  Florence,  and  the  bounteous  fields 
of  the  bright  Cascino ;  gathering  strength  and 
volume,  till  between  Pisa  and  Leghorn — in 
sight  of  the  wondrous  Leaning  Tower  and  the 
ship-masts  of  the  Tuscan  port,  it  gave  its 
waters  to  its  life's  grave — the  sea. 

The  recollection  blended  sweetly  now  with 
my  musings,  over  my  garret  grate,  and  offered 
a  flowing  image,  to  bear  along  upon  its  bosom 
the  affections  that  were  grouping  in  my  reverie. 

It  is  a  strange  force  of  the  mind  and  of  the 
fancy,  that  can  set  the  objects  which  are  closest 
to  the  heart  far  down  the  lapse  of  time.  Even 
now,  as  the  fire  fades  slightly,  and  sinks  slowly 
towards  the  bar,  which  is  the  dial  of  my  hours, 
I  seem  to  see  that  image  of  love  which  has 
played  about  the  fire-glow  of  my  grate — years 
hence.  It  still  covers  the  same  warm,  trustful, 
religious  heart.  Trials  have  tried  it ;  afflic- 
tions have  weighed  upon  it ;  danger  has  scared 
43 


a  Ctt£  (Brate 


it ;  and  death  is  coming  near  to  subdue  it ;  but 
still  it  is  the  same. 

The  fingers  are  thinner ;  the  face  has  lines 
of  care,  and  sorrow,  crossing  each  other  in  a 
web-work,  that  makes  the  golden  tissue  of  hu- 
manity. But  the  heart  is  fond,  and  steady  ;  it 
is  the  same  dear  heart,  the  same  self-sacrificing 
heart,  warming,  like  a  fire,  all  around  it.  Af- 
fliction has  tempered  joy ;  and  joy  adorned 
affliction.  Life  and  all  its  troubles  have  be- 
come distilled  into  an  holy  incense,  rising  ever 
from  your  fireside — an  offering  to  your  house- 
hold gods. 

Your  dreams  of  reputation,  your  swift  de- 
termination, your  impulsive  pride,  your  deep 
uttered  vows  to  win  a  name,  have  all  sobered 
into  affection — have  all  blended  into  that  glow 
of  feeling,  which  finds  its  center,  and  hope,  and 
joy  in  HOME.  From  my  soul  I  pity  him  whose 
soul  does  not  leap  at  the  mere  utterance  of  that 
name. 

A  home ! — it  is  the  bright,  blessed,  adorable 
phantom  which  sits  highest  on  the  sunny 
horizon  that  girdeth  life!  When  shall  it  be 
reached  ?  "When  shall  it  cease  to  be  a  glittering 
day-dream,  and  become  fully  and  fairly  yours  f 
44 

• 

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a  £it£  (State 


It  is  not  the  house,  though  that  may  have 
its  charms  ;  nor  the  fields  carefully  tilled,  and 
streaked  with  your  own  footpaths — nor  the 
trees,  though  their  shadow  be  to  you  like  that 
of  a  great  rock  in  a  weary  land — nor  yet  is  it 
the  fireside,  with  its  sweet  blaze-play — nor  the 
pictures  which  tell  of  loved  ones,  nor  thei 
cherished  books — but  more  far  than  all  these  " 
— it  is  the  PRESENCE.  The  Lares  of  your 
worship  are  there  ;  the  altar  of  your  confidence 
there ;  the  end  of  your  worldly  faith  is  there  ; 
and  adorning  it  all,  and  sending  your  blood  in 
passionate  flow,  is  the  ecstasy  of  the  convic- 
tion, that  there  at  least  you  are  beloved ;  that 
there  you  are  understood ;  that  there  your 
errors  will  meet  ever  with  gentlest  forgive- 
ness :  that  there  your  troubles  will  be  smiled 
away ;  that  there  you  may  unburden  your  soul, 
fearless  of  harsh,  unsympathizing  ears;  and 
that  there  you  may  be  entirely  and  joyfully — 
yourself ! 

There  may  be  those  of  coarse  mold — and  I 
have  seen  such  even  in  the  disguise  of  women 
— who  will  reckon  these  feelings  puling  senti- 
ment. God  pity  them  ! — as  they  have  need  of 
pity. 

45 


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. 


That  image  by  the  fireside,  calm,  loving, 

joyful,  is  there  still :  it  goes  not,  however  my 
spirit  tosses,  because  my  wish,  and  every  will, 
keep  it  there,  unerring. 

The  fire  shows  through  the  screen,  yellow 
and  warm,  as  a  harvest  sun.  It  is  in  its  best 
age,  and  that  age  is  ripeness. 

A  ripe  heart! — now  I  know  what  "Words- 
worth meant,  when  he  said  : 


The  good  die  first, 

And  they  whose  hearts  are  dry  as  summer  dust, 
Burn  to  the  socket ! 

The  town  clock  is  striking  midnight.  The 
cold  of  the  night-wind  is  urging  its  way  in  at 
the  door  and  window-crevice ;  the  fire  has  sunk 
almost  to  the  third  bar  of  the  grate.  Still  my 
dream  tires  not,  but  wraps  fondly  round  that 
image — now  in  the  far  off,  chilling  mists  of 
age,  growing  sainted.  Love  has  blended  into 
reverence ;  passion  has  subsided  into  joyous 
content. 

And  what  if  age  comes,  said  I,  in  a  new 

flush  of  excitation — what  else  proves  the  wine  ? 
What  else  gives  inner  strength,  and  knowl- 
edge, and  a  steady  pilot-hand,  to  steer  your 
46 


a  City  (State 


boat  out  bodily  upon  that  shoreless  sea,  where 
the  river  of  life  is  running?  Let  the  white 
ashes  gather ;  let  the  silver  hair  lie,  where  lay 
the  auburn ;  let  the  eye  gleam  farther  back, 
and  dimmer ;  it  is  but  retreating  towards  the 
pure  sky-depths,  an  usher  to  the  land  where 
you  will  follow  after. 

It  is  quite  cold,  and  I  take  away  the  screen 
altogether ;  there  is  a  little  glow  yet,  but  pres- 
ently the  coal  slips  down  below  the  third  bar, 
with  a  rumbling  sound — like  that  of  coarse 
gravel  falling  into  a  new-dug  grave. 

She  is  gone ! 

Well,  the  heart  has  burned  fairly,  evenly, 
generously,  while  there  was  mortality  to  kindle 
it ;  eternity  will  surely  kindle  it  better. 

Tears  indeed ;  but  they  are  tears  of 

thanksgiving,  of  resignation,  and  of  hope ! 

And  the  eyes,  full  of  those  tears,  which 
ministering  angels  bestow,  climb  with  quick 
vision,  upon  the  angelic  ladder,  and  open  upon 
the  futurity  where  she  has  entered,  and  upon 
the  country,  which  she  enjoys. 

It  is  midnight,  and  the  sounds  of  life  are 
dead. 

You  are  in  the  death  chamber  of  life ;  but 
47 


a  Cttv  <5rate 


you  are  also  in  the  death  chamber  of  care. 
The  world  seems  sliding  backward  ;  and  hope 
and  you  are  sliding  forward.  The  clouds,  the 
agonies,  the  vain  expectancies,  the  braggart 
noise,  and  fears,  now  vanish  behind  the  curtain 
of  the  past,  and  of  the  night.  They  roll  from 
your  soul  like  a  load. 

In  the  dimness  of  what  seems  the  ending 
present,  you  reach  out  your  prayerful  hands 
towards  that  boundless  future,  where  God's 
eye  lifts  over  the  horizon,  like  sunrise  on  the 
ocean.  Do  you  recognize  it  as  an  earnest  of 
something  better  ?  Aye,  if  the  heart  has  been 
pure,  and  steady — burning  like  my  fire — it 
has  learned  it  without  seeming  to  learn.  Faith 
has  grown  upon  it,  as  the  blossom  grows  upon 
the  bud,  or  the  flower  upon  the  slow-lifting 
stalk. 

Cares  cannot  come  into  the  dream-land  where 
I  live.  They  sink  with  the  dying  street  noise, 
and  vanish  with  the  embers  of  my  fire.  Even 
ambition,  with  its  hot  and  shifting  flame,  is  all 
gone  out.  The  heart  in  the  dimness  of  the 
fading  fire-glow  is  all  itself.  The  memory  of 
what  good  things  have  come  over  it  in  the 
troubled  youth-life,  bear  it  up ;  and  hope  and 
48 


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faith  bear  it  on.  There  is  no  extravagant 
pulse-glow ;  there  is  no  mad  fever  of  the  brain ; 
but  only  the  soul,  forgetting — for  once — all, 
save  its  destinies  and  its  capacities  for  good. 
And  it  mounts  higher  and  higher  on  these 
wings  of  thought;  and  hope  burns  stronger 
and  stronger  out  of  the  ashes  of  decaying  life, 
until  the  sharp  edge  of  the  grave  seems  but  a 
foot-scraper  at  the  wicket  of  Elysium  ! 

But  what  is  paper;  and  what  are  words? 
Yain  things!  The  soul  leaves  them  behind; 
the  pen  staggers  like  a  starveling  cripple ;  and 
your  heart  is  leaving  it,  a  whole  length  of  the 
life-course  behind.  The  soul's  mortal  long- 
ings— its  poor  baffled  hopes,  are  dim  now  in 
the  light  of  those  infinite  longings,  which 
spread  over  it,  soft  and  holy  as  day-dawn. 
Eternity  has  stretched  a  corner  of  its  mantle 
towards  you,  and  the  breath  of  its  waving 
fringe  is  like  a  gale  of  Araby. 

A  little  rumbling,  and  a  last  plunge  of  the 
cinders  within  my  grate,  startled  me,  and 
dragged  back  my  fancy  from  my  flower  chase, 
beyond  the  Phlegethon,  to  the  white  ashes, 
that  were  now  thick  all  over  the  darkened^ 
coals. 

49 

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And  this — mused  I — is  only  a  bachelor- 
dream  about  a  pure,  and  loving  heart !  And 
to-morrow  comes  cankerous  life  again — is  it 
wished  for  ?  Or  if  not  wished  for,  is  the  not 
wishing,  wicked  ? 

Will  dreams  satisfy,  reach  high  as  they  can  ? 
Are  we  not  after  all  poor  groveling  mortals, 
tied  to  earth,  and  to  each  other ;  are  there  not 
sympathies,  and  hopes,  and  affections  which 
can  only  find  their  issue,  and  blessing,  in  fel- 
low absorption  ?  Does  not  the  heart,  steady, 
and  pure  as  it  may  be,  and  mounting  on  soul 
flights  often  as  it  dare,  want  a  human  sympa- 
thy, perfectly  indulged,  to  make  it  healthful  ? 
Is  there  not  a  fount  of  love  for  this  world,  as 
there  is  a  fount  of  love  for  the  other  ?  Is  there 
not  a  certain  store  of  tenderness,  cooped  in 
this  heart,  which  must,  and  will  be  lavished, 
before  the  end  comes?  Does  it  not  plead 
with  the  judgment,  and  make  issue  with  pru- 
dence, year  after  year  ?  Does  it  not  dog  your 
steps  all  through  your  social  pilgrimage,  set- 
ting up  its  claims  in  forms  fresh,  and  odorous 
as  new-blown  heath  bells,  saying — come  away 
from  the  heartless,  the  factitious,  the  vain,  and 
measure  your  heart  not  by  its  constraints,  but 
50 


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by  its  fulness,  and  by  its  depth!  let  it  run, 
and  be  joyous ! 

Is  there  no  demon  that  comes  to  your  harsh 
night-dreams,  like  a  taunting  fiend,  whispering 
— be  satisfied ;  keep  your  heart  from  running 
over  ;  bridle  those  affections ;  there  is  nothing 
worth  loving  ? 

Does  not  some  sweet  being  hover  over  your 
spirit  of  reverie  like  a  beckoning  angel, 
crowned  with  halo,  saying — hope  on,  hope 
ever;  the  heart  and  I  are  kindred;  our  mis- 
sion will  be  fulfilled ;  nature  shall  accomplish 
its  purpose ;  the  soul  shall  have  its  paradise  ? 

1  threw  myself  upon  my  bed:  and  as  -'V^fe.; •;; 

my  thoughts  ran  over  the  definite,  sharp  busi-  V^^^^f 

ness  of  the  morrow,  my  reverie,  and  its  glow- 
ing images,  that  made  my  heart  bound,  swept  :-^^^^^ 
away,  like  those  fleecy  rain  clouds  of  August, 
on  which  the  sun  paints  rainbows — driving 
southward,  by  the  cool,  rising  wind  from  the  \;  , 
north.  l;:|/ | 

1   wonder — thought    I,  as  I    dropped  '--yf/^ 

asleep — if  a  married  man  with  his  sentiment  vy; 

made  actual,  is  after  all,  as  happy  as  we  poor  ^'^'.'P 

fellows,  in  our  dreams  ?  ^  ^? 

61 


